


To Boldly Go

by estelraca



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Reincarnation, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 17:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10495554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estelraca/pseuds/estelraca
Summary: Bahorel and Courfeyrac decide that the only way they're possibly finishing this lab report and passing is by creating a great epic involving shenanigans in space to entertain their TA.  Written for the April Fool's exchange.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fraternite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fraternite/gifts).



_To Boldly Go_

"And then the fourth valence is struck by a wave of energy from the dastardly Darth Nukleus and find themselves throw out to where the seventh valence is waiting, causing crowding in the seventh and destabilizing everything by leaving the Fourth completely unguarded."

"No." Bahorel takes the laptop away from Courfeyrac, holding it above his head when Courfeyrac whines and lunges for it. "Absolutely not. We are not calling the villain Darth Nukleus."

"All right, fine, then _you_ come up with a better name." Courfeyrac crosses his arms in front of his chest. " _You're_ the one who suggested we write this as a space opera."

"And I stand by that. A space opera is a far more fitting format for a physic's lab report than..." Bahorel presses one toe very gingerly against the rumpled white paper currently half-buried under the futon. "Whatever that _standard formatting_ thing was. And I think our TA is the type to appreciate it, if it's well done."

Courfeyrac places his hands on his hips, pouting even harder. "Are you saying that my space opera is _not_ well done?"

"I'm saying there's a certain... _flare_ to them that we're currently lacking. For a parody, sure, your Darth Nukleus thing could work, though it completely ignores the naming conventions that the Sith usually use."

"The Sith are happy to name themselves things like _Bane_ and _Plagueis_. I don't think our Dark Lord has anything to be ashamed about." Courfeyrac lunges for the laptop again, but Bahorel dances back out of the way. Flopping back down on the futon in apparent defeat, Courfeyrac arches an eyebrow as he stares up at Bahorel. "Besides, who died and made you Lord of All Space Operas?"

"We died, many times; no one makes me lord of anything, we've always been staunchly against everything that smacks of bourgeois entitlement, so they would regret it; and space operas are inherently a part of my repertoire." Bahorel settles down cross-legged on the ground, balancing the laptop on his legs as he begins to edit their first attempt. "Space operas are pretty fundamentally about punching allegories of Nazis in the face. Can you imagine anything more suited to me?"

"Punching kings in the face, but you're right, definitely the say-no-to-blind-authority, fisticuffs-are-great parts of the genre fit your aesthetic pretty well." Courfeyrac rolls over, reaching out to poke Bahorel's knee. "Though I think it's a bit of a stretch to say that space opera, as a genre, is about punching Nazis in the face."

"Oh really?" Bahorel grins. "Name famous space operas."

Courfeyrac sits up, gathering the bleeding flower pillow that Jehan gave him last final's week into his arms and hugging it tight. "I'm not going to say Star Wars. That one's too obvious. So how about Star Trek?"

"Literally had an episode where James Tiberius Kirk had to take down a society based off of Nazi Germany that another idiot Starfleet officer had created."

Courfeyrac frowns. "That's not the weird one where they go to a planet that's basically an alternate history version of Earth?"

"Nope." Bahorel responds cheerfully. "That one's all about punching Communists in the face."

"I would think that would be against our general ideology."

Bahorel shrugs. "There are lots of people who need a good punch or two in order to get their heads on straight."

"And thankfully you're always there to provide it." Courfeyrac falls back down onto the futon, sighing dramatically. "What about those cat-alien books that Combeferre was on about last year? I don't think those had space Nazis."

"The Chanur series? Or a different series?" Bahorel looks up, drumming his fingers along the edge of the laptop beneath the keyboard. "For someone who's so rigorously _scientific_ he gets a great deal of joy out of things that he also calls _completely fanciful_."

"Chanur sounds familiar, and I think Combeferre just likes getting to look up things he didn't know and see what authors got right and what authors got wrong." Courfeyrac smiles, reaching up to run his fingers along the spines of the books arranged above the back of the futon. Most of them are probably Combeferre's, or at least would have his fingerprints on them if dusted. "He's fascinated by what science _could_ do, not just what it _has_ done. And you know science fiction keeps intersecting with science fact."

"I do. I hear that zinnias can grow in space now, just to make Captain Kirk happy." Bahorel scrolls back up to the top of their lab report. "All right. So we have our intrepid electron hero. They're nothing special—just another electron joining the ranks, trying to find a place to fit into the valences. Maybe they initially belonged to a hydrogen atom and an oxygen stole them away? That's what the chemistry lecture last week was on, right?"

"Why do you think I paid more attention than you in class?"

Bahorel laughs. "Because it's hard to pay _less_ attention than me in class. Especially classes that I think are silly for us to have to take in the first place."

"All right, I'll give you that one. And sure, we'll have our great hero having been pressed into service by an oxygen atom." Courfeyrac tumbles down off the futon, coming to sit next to Bahorel and peering over his shoulder. "That gives us an opportunity to explain valences like we're supposed to..."

They manage to actually work on the paper for about twenty minutes before a literal explosion outside their dorm causes both of them to jump up and run to the window.

"I should have suspected." Courfeyrac hides his eyes behind one hand, though he artfully spreads his fingers so he can continue to look at the ongoing catastrophe. Leaning out their second-floor window, Courfeyrac waves to the three figures standing amid a smoking crater below them. "Let me guess! Combeferre is responsible for this, but somehow Bossuet is the one who's ended up with the worst luck!"

"Actually..." Bossuet dusts himself off, examining his jacket before turning a blinding smile up towards Courfeyrac. "I seem to have come out of this one relatively intact. It's the jacket. I think it's the only thing immune to my terrible luck."

"And I'm hardly responsible for this!" Combeferre reaches up to adjust glasses that are no longer there, swaying slightly. "I was trying to prove that the instructions shown on YouTube for this little experiment were fabricated, and I believe I have."

"You also might want to run before the police arrive." Bahorel sticks his head out the window next to Courfeyrac. "Just a suggestion, but given my own experience with things blowing up and authority's response..."

Courfeyrac isn't surprised when there's a knock on their door less than two minutes later. They bundle their slightly-worse-for-wear friends inside the room, locking it after them.

"Thank you." Joly sniffles slightly, rubbing at his nose. "I hope we didn't interrupt anything important."

"Eh, just work on the report that will possibly determine whether I pass or fail the physics lab." Bahorel shrugs. "Given how much I care about my grades..."

Bossuet pats Bahorel on the back. "I think you're the only student who's more horrified at the idea of actually completing his major than he is at the idea of failing."

"There are far, far more important things out there than whether or not I pass a class or get the joy of sitting the bar at some point in the distant, distant, _distant_ future." Bahorel picks bits of twigs out of Bossuet's hair.

"You know you're still allowed to be involved in activist groups when you've graduated university, right?" Combeferre comments dryly as he uses a shirt Courfeyrac handed him in a probably-futile attempt to make his apparently-recovered glasses functional.

"Oh, of course! I'm _already_ involved in groups like that. But there's something... _special_ about the college activist experience." Bahorel shrugs. "Besides, I really, really don't want to be a lawyer."

"And finding a major that you _do_ enjoy is of course impossible." Combeferre's voice is as dry as the desert.

Courfeyrac pats the man on the shoulder. "Now, now. Just because you had a _little_ bit of an explosion problem doesn't mean you have to get snarky."

"Besides." Bahorel shrugs. "I don't like labels, period, but I think I'm a little more than the art department can manage."

"Especially given how they've handled Jehan so far." Joly's look of vague unease as he picks up the flower pillow Courfeyrac had been hugging earlier speaks volumes.

Courfeyrac claps his hands together. "All right, let's get everyone cleaned up before someone comes knocking on doors asking what happened."

Bossuet links his arm through Joly's. "We claim the shower first. Don't worry, though—we'll be fast."

The two of them disappear into the connected shower, and Courfeyrac waits to hear the sound of both doors being locked before steering Combeferre gently over to the futon and urging him to sit.

"So." Combeferre visibly collects himself, setting his cracked glasses on the shelf with the books. "What were you two up to before we so rudely interrupted?"

"Writing about the adventures of Valence Electron, defender of his home from the ravages of gamma radiation." The more horrified Combeferre looks the broader Courfeyrac's grin becomes. "It's a beautiful epic. A space opera to move the masses."

Combeferre stares up at the ceiling for several long seconds. Then he turns his slightly unfocused gaze on Bahorel. "Read me what you've got so far. You make it epic, I'll make sure it's scientifically accurate."

Bahorel scrolls back up to the top, grinning as he does.

Maybe, just maybe, this will be one lab report where he both passes _and_ finds the end result actually interesting.


End file.
